


House-Sitting - Request

by homeiswherethehorroris



Category: AHS - Fandom, American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: CreepyTate, Love, Lust, Lust at First Sight, Other, Paranormal, Shameless Smut, SlightControlKink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 19:04:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3392795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homeiswherethehorroris/pseuds/homeiswherethehorroris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When your mother forces you to spend a week in Los Angles house-sitting for your aunt, you thought life couldn't get any worse. Until you meet your new neighbor Tate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House-Sitting - Request

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, please feel free to leave feedback and kudos etc. :)

Request: - hiya! can you do a story where you’ve just moved into the murder house and you meet tate then you fuck? love your blog by the way, seriously underrated!! :))))) 

Seated on your suitcase with all the rest of your luggage scattered around you, and the humid Los Angeles sun beating down on your back, you watched the steady increase of traffic outside the airport. After hearing about your distant aunt’s troubles your kindly, worrisome mother had signed you up for house-sitting, based solely on the fact she knew you couldn’t refuse following the last school report you had brought home. Leading to three nights of incessant screaming matches, watery eyes, reluctant packing and a five hour plane journey. Now, sitting on your worldly possessions with Nirvana blasting through your walkman earphones, you were awaiting your so-called in-laws arrival.

Two hours later than you’d originally planned a familiar, rusty power blue nineteen fifties Chevrolet pulled up in front of you, your aunt’s head of auburn curls leaning out the window excitedly. After ten minutes of cheek pinching, being hugged tearfully and desperately trying to squeeze your suitcase into the Chevy’s worn out boot, you managed to get on your way. Pulling up, another hour later, outside an antique, formerly restored mansion. A few more minutes struggling with your suitcase later and you were both hauling your stuff up the driveway and eventually into the building. Much like you’d anticipated everything was old, the only prospect exciting you being the dusty, abandoned record player in the kitchen.

Following a short and hasty tour around the house your aunt led you up the winding staircase to the room in which you’d be residing, leaving you to get settled. Dumping your stuff on the floor, you unzipped your suitcase, taking out your toiletry bag and walking with it towards the en suite bathroom. Turning on the light, you set your bag on the sink’s countertop and began unloading your toiletries into the small, mirrored cupboard positioned above it. Once you had finished, you shut the cupboard door, glancing up into the mirror to find a boy’s reflection staring back at you over your shoulder. Startled, you whirled around so fast that you almost slipped, to find nothing there.

“Jet lag’s a bitch,” you muttered, throwing the empty toiletry bag onto the double bed in the centre of the room. Shaking your head you began undressing, slipping your shirt off over your head before unbuttoning and shedding your jeans. Leaving the discarded items in a crumpled heap by the door you added your underwear to it and stepped into the shower. Cool, soothing jets of water spurted from the nozzle making you sigh and lean heavily into the spray, loosening your muscles and leaving you feeling relaxed. Reaching a hand out, you groped for the soap, lathering your hands with it before replacing the bar in its dish. Running your soapy hands over yourself, your eyes shuttered closed. Strangely, you thought your hands seemed rougher than usual, larger even. They cupped both your breasts fully, caressing them and rolling the tips between soapy fingers. Making you gasp and rest a single hand against the tiled wall, supporting yourself, as the indiscernible hands moved lower. When they reached your abdomen, unable to stop yourself you groaned, your eyes shooting open at the sound. Finding yourself alone and aroused.

Panting, you brought your fingers down to your sex. Finding your clitoris, you began to rub insistently, eager to finish yourself off. You climaxed quickly, muffling your cry with your other hand so your aunt couldn’t overhear. Afterwards, you washed yourself off, quickly drying with one of the towels your aunt had provided for you. Padding barefoot back into the bedroom, you let the towel drop and pool around your ankles before changing into your pyjamas. Once you had finished you pulled back the bedcovers and climbed blissfully into bed hoping to sleep off your jet lag.

You awoke some time later, in the early hours of the morning, by the noises emitting from your stomach. Seeking nourishment, you groggily swung yourself out of bed, half walking half stumbling down the stairs to the kitchen. Finding inside a note from your aunt, taped to the refrigerator, explaining that she’d gone to the airport and would see you in three days. After perusing the note a while you returned to your quest, upturning cupboards in order to find something more substantial to eat than your aunt’s granola bars. Eventually you came across an unopened box of PopTarts, hidden away in the far recesses of a cupboard. Deciding it was better than nothing you placed three in the toaster and waited until they were done then carried your make-shift meal into the living room to watch some television. Flicking through the channels, you settled on a re-run of Doctor Who, the familiar voices of the actors lulling you to sleep.

This time you awoke midday, feeling considerably better than you had after your arrival yesterday, but again feeling peckish. Rising from the couch you walked into the kitchen, grabbing a Marilyn Manson vinyl on your way, you left it to play whilst you searched for food. Abruptly, as you where absorbed in searching through the fridge, the music stopped causing you to glance in the record player’s direction. A boy stood silently by the player holding the vinyl between his pale fingers, expression moody.

“Got any Cobain?”

There came a crash as you dropped the item you were holding, which happened to be a bottle of maple syrup, leaving a sticky mess all over the tiled floor.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” you asked, hand unconsciously inching towards the knife rack for protection.

The boy held up his hands in mock defence. “I live next door, chill the fuck out dude,” He rolled his eyes and turned to your aunt’s shelf of records, fingers flicking through the vinyls. “Like I said, any Cobain?”

“How did you even get in here?” you asked.

He turned to look at you. “Through the front door, like regular people,”

Really? Cause’ last time I checked regular people didn’t invite themselves into other people’s homes uninvited! You thought.

“I was expecting your aunt but-“he unsheathed a different vinyl, placing it on the record player. “-I guess you’ll have to do,” He flashed a smile your way.

You shook your head, exasperated. “Just get out, would you?”

His smile faded. “Alright jeez, so much for pleasantries,”

Together you walked out of the kitchen with you leading the way, stopping at the front door; you held it open for him. He stepped awkwardly onto the doormat, lingering a while longer. “Guess I’ll be seeing you then,”

“Yeah, Cheerio, Bye,” you muttered, shutting the door before he could reply. Your appetite having vanished, due to his arrival, you decided to go back upstairs to wash and dress. Several minutes later you emerged from the guest room feeling clean and considerably better. You had just started to make your way back downstairs when you heard a crash coming from the hallway. Against your better judgement you turned to look where the commotion had sounded from, finding that the attic trapdoor had swung open, and the ladder leading up to it having fallen down, causing the crash. Cursing aloud you walked over to it, intending to push it back up, however as your hand touched a wooden wrung a wave of curiosity swept over you. Unable to resist being nosey you started to climb the ladder, finding a room full of nothing but boxes, furniture covered with dust sheets and decades old photo albums. Disappointment evident in your features you began flicking through some of the albums, finding countless photos of you and your siblings when you were younger, eventually you came to the last and biggest album. Opening the cover you sent a plume of dust billowing into the air; instead of photos you had found newspaper clippings each dating back to years ago. The latest one dated back to nineteen ninety four, the headline screaming out in black, bold letters “15 Dead in tragic shooting at Westfield High,” on the page next to it there was another article saying “Suspect in School Shooting Dead,” and underneath a picture of…

“Weren’t you ever told not to touch things that don’t belong to you?”

At the sound of his voice you jolted violently, the photo album falling out of your grasp and landing on the floorboards with a loud thump. You dared not breathe as footsteps circled round you, watching as familiar pale fingers lifted the album, your eyes meeting those of chocolate brown.

“I always hated that photo of me,” he said matter-of-factly, his fingers snapping the album shut.

“It’s not possible,” you whispered. 

His eyes bored into yours, the purple bags underneath accentuating them. “Anything’s possible,”

****

Back in the living room you and Tate sat across from one another, a couple of empty soda cans and crisp packets between you. You’d come to realize that he wasn’t much of a talker, the subject of his family plus the shooting itself were off limits and that he was - well - dead. Though he didn’t look it, sat in front of you he looked perfectly normal.

Drumming his fingers on his thighs, Tate exhaled loudly. “Are we finished with whatever this is? Cause’ I didn’t show myself to you so I could relive past events,”

“Then why did you?” you questioned, helping yourself to another packet of crisps. “Does my aunt know about you?”

He shook his head. “Nope, doesn’t that make you feel special?”

You rolled your eyes at him in answer, ignoring his question.

Tate leaned forward. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What’s the deal with you? Never seen you ‘round before,”

You shrugged. “Distant relative, I’m house-sitting for a few days. Though I’ve been warned about a so-called creepy aura around this joint, no offense,”

“None taken,” Tate’s eyes glimmered with untold humour. “Noticed anything particularly strange?”

“Aside from you?” you grinned. “Nothing, although I did have a weird time in the shower when I arrived,”

“I’m all ears,”

You leaned towards him, voice dropping to a whisper, though nobody was around. “It felt like there was someone with me in the shower, and my hands didn’t feel like my hands they were-“you trailed off trying to find words. “-different, just different, rougher yet gentle at the same time,”

His eyes shinned harder. “Want to know a secret (Y/N)? That was me,”

“What?!” you breathed, suddenly feeling more embarrassed than angry. “How much did you see?”

“Everything,” Tate drawled, blonde curls falling messily into his eyes and his lips curving, giving him a devilish appearance. “You make the cutest noises when you come, like a kitten,”

You narrowed your eyes, disbelieving. “Prove it,”

“What?”

“Prove that it was you,”

In answer Tate vanished, materialising into thin air.

You whirled around, waiting for a sudden movement to give away his position in the room. But Tate had had years to practise; he left no sounds and no movements to give him away. Abruptly you felt heavy pressure on your thigh, causing your head to snap back around, watching as the shape of a hand slid up your shirt to grip one of your breasts.

“Alright, alright!” you gasped, fingers clutching around a ghostly wrist. “You’ve made your point,”

Tate reappeared, a smug look on his face, hand still resting upon your chest.

“Now it’s my turn,”

At your words his smile grew wider, even more so when you pushed his hand from your chest in order to straddle him, his back resting against the couch. Your hands making quick work of the buttons on his shirt you stripped him of it, dropping it unceremoniously on the floor. Hands skimming over the expanse of his chest, admiring the way the pale skin stretched tight over his bones. Next you started on his belt, confidently unbuckling it and tugging it through the loops on his jeans. Once you’d undone his zipper you started to tug them down, him lifting his hips momentarily so you could pull them past his thighs. Leaving them half-down, around his knees, you diverted your attention to other parts of his anatomy. Placing a hand high on his thigh you glanced up at him, wanting to gauge his reaction. Chocolate coloured eyes pierced yours, liquid fire running through them, so intensely you felt certain he was seeing into your very soul.

Now a little nervous, you shifted your hand to grasp his manhood through the material of his underwear, watching as his eye flickered closed. With his gaze diverted from you, you felt confident, inspiring you to apply slight pressure on your hold of him and start to grind your hand in slow circles. Eyes shuttered closed, Tate’s mouth fell open and his head fell back, his blonde curls almost touching the couch cushions. You smiled, feeling power surge into you, you literally had this man by the balls and it felt exquisite. Halting your actions, you threaded your fingers into the band of his underwear, pulling it down around his knees. For a young man he was well endowed, fully erect his cock curved to his navel and was generous in girth too. Desire etched on his face, Tate gripped the back of your head in one hand and pulled you to meet his kiss. It lasted but a few minutes before you pulled away to stand above him, shedding your clothes quickly, before straddling him again.

This time you initiated the kiss, deepening it and holding him in place by his hair. As you kissed your hands wandered between you both, finding his erection you started stroking it, thumbing the tip and making him groan into the kiss. Abruptly you felt hands stroke along your inner thighs and fingers start to spread your nether lips as two, long fingers sunk deep inside your body. You gasped your pleasure into his mouth as Tate started to piston the digits in and out of you, no doubt an imitation of what was about to come. You were dangerously near completion when Tate jerked his fingers free, leaving you clenching around nothing, you opened your mouth to say something but he pushed you down onto your back. Gripping your ankles and spreading your legs wide, Tate positioned himself between them, erection in hand. Less than a second later you felt him filling you, causing you to moan aloud, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders. Setting a brutal rhythm Tate buried his face into your neck, panting against your sweat-slicked skin, your hands dropping from his shoulders and gripping onto the globes of his ass. Feeling it flex between your fingers as he moved within you, your legs wrapping around him too, enveloping him in your warmth. Gradually his pace began to slow and his movements became disjointed, with a last groan Tate pulled himself out of you, climaxing over your abdomen. Hooking your thighs over his shoulders Tate started licking into your quivering flesh, eager for you to find release. Moments later you did, throwing your head back with a shriek as he pushed you over the edge with his tongue.

As you caught your breath Tate’s head reappeared, grin fixed firmly into place. “Now I’ll ask you again, got any Cobain?”


End file.
